


angel of small death

by aknifeisachoice



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: ...and frank enjoys it, F/M, karen takes control of the situation, pwp i have no excuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 13:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16429913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aknifeisachoice/pseuds/aknifeisachoice
Summary: Swallowing, she drags her eyes back to his. “I want to touch myself.” They’ve reached her bedroom. He stops short of the doorway. “I want to touch myself, and I want you to watch me.”





	angel of small death

 

 

 

 

By the time they get home, Frank is impatient. He crowds her as she unlocks the door, hands on her hips, mouth on her neck. Karen shudders, falling forward against the door at the scratch of his stubble on her skin. “Just a sec,” she whispers, breathy and chiding.

 

“Too long,” he growls, and she feels him speak through the vibration from his chest to her back. Shivers race down her arms.

 

They practically tumble into her apartment and Frank’s arm around her stomach is the only thing holding her upright. Without looking, he palms the door shut and spins her so that her back is pressed against it. Karen’s mouth opens in a sharp inhale and he immediately renders her breathless with a kiss. It’s a mess of a kiss, warm and wet and demanding. He spans his hands across her ribcage and presses her into the door.

 

Since the beginning (finally, they have begun) they have been fused at all points. Enough with the wasted time, and enough with the wasted space.

 

Wasted is not the right word. They needed that time to get where they are, now. Finally. _Finally_. Her kiss claims him, and his claims her in return.

 

When she scratches her nails against his scalp, his groan rumbles against her chest. She smiles, proud of that particular accomplishment, but the smile turns to a gasp when he rocks himself into the cradle of her hips. “Karen,” Frank sighs. Prayer sounds less holy than her name on his lips. His force and his gentleness are never at war. They exist together perfectly well; he channels his tenderness with the force of a hurricane and directs it all to her.

 

She nips at his chin. “How ‘bout we get rid of some of these clothes?”

 

A flash of a smile is her answer. He lets her go to start stripping, and she tries not to make a childish whine at the loss of contact but he catches the tiny noise. “Sorry, ma’am,” he comments dryly, sounding smug and unapologetic. “You wanted to go first?” Eyes locked with hers, he unbuttons her thin jacket and pushes it off her shoulders. Karen tips her chin up, his breath touching the length of her throat. The jacket falls to the floor and he trails his hands down her body, scarred knuckles brushing against the sides of her breasts. Their mouths don’t touch, but hover one breath apart. Frank grips her hips, starting to slide her skirt up.

 

“So handsy,” she teases. Playfully, she puts her hands on his chest and pushes him from her. He steps back, curious. She walks backwards toward her bedroom, and he follows her. It almost feels dramatic to think of the way he moves as prowling, but damn if that isn’t what it looks like. He’s on the prowl. “Maybe you need to learn a lesson about boundaries.”

 

“Willing to learn anything you’re willing to teach,” he rumbles, and Karen’s knees just about give out right then and there. This motherfucker. He’s dangerous. Of course he is, being the Punisher and all. But this different.

 

This, only she gets to see.

 

Toeing off her flats, Karen untucks her shirt from her skirt, warm air touching her stomach. Never taking his eyes off of her, Frank kicks off his boots and shrugs out of his coat, dropping it in a heap on the floor. The air is heavy between them, electricity gathering before a storm breaks.

 

Karen feels dangerous herself, a force to be reckoned with. Rolling her shoulders back, she slides her skirt down her thighs. Frank’s eyes track the movement. The want written all over him is powerful. Her power. She wants to use it. “Frank,” she begins, voice light. He’s watching her peel back her shirt, skin tacky from the summer’s humidity. “Frank.”

 

“Hm?” He pulls his own shirt up and over his head, momentarily distracting her with the solidity of his body. The dark hair on his chest, trailing down from his belly button. “Yeah, Kare?” The nickname is like sunlight under her skin every time she hears it. The familiarity. The easy comfort. Being the person with whom Frank Castle feels comfortable is a heady drug.

 

Swallowing, she drags her eyes back to his. “I want to touch myself.” They’ve reached her bedroom. He stops short of the doorway. “I want to touch myself, and I want you to watch me.”

 

Frank’s face shifts subtly, going very still. They breathe, and a siren wails somewhere outside. “Fuck, Karen,” he says finally. The dark look in his eyes makes her blaze. In two steps, he strides into her room and takes her in his arms, his kiss a tidal wave. “Whatever you want,” he murmurs against her lips. “Anything.”

 

She pulls back, and his lips trail down her chin, along her jaw. “But you can’t touch me.”

 

Hands tightening on her, he huffs a laugh against her skin. “I can’t touch you?”

 

She takes his face in her hands. “Trust me.”

 

Wordlessly, he tells her that he does. He lets her go, stepping back. Some of her hair catches on his stubble and drifts between them before falling back to her bare shoulders. Even here in her bedroom, she is overwhelmed by the sheer presence of him. All his strength, all the power held in check. It would amaze her, if she hadn’t always known the truth of him. Frank Castle is a man of indomitable control.

 

Control she is about to test.

 

“Sit,” she tells him. Predatory gaze never wavering, Frank sits in the chair by the window. Yellow light from the street lamp outside washes him in warm color. Karen skims her hand down her stomach, fingertips running along the inside of her underwear. Frank is gripping the arms of the chair like he wants to break them. Maybe she should have thought about potential damage to her furniture before starting this. _No_ , the expression he wears is worth any damage.

 

Something dark and awed in his eyes, Frank watches the movement of her hands with honed focus. Dark lashes sweep his cheek as he blinks, throat moving as he swallows. Karen pushes her underwear down her legs, then drags her fingers up the outside of her thighs. Goosebumps follow in their wake, her skin alive with the heightened awareness of being watched. Of being seen.

 

She drops her bra on the floor and crawls slowly back onto her bed. It’s humid as hell outside, but her sheets are cool and smooth against her bare skin. She feels aware of every inch of her body, the backs of her knees and the underside of her arms and the pads of her feet. Her thighs slide against each other.

 

“Karen,” Frank breathes, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He shakes his head, hands clasped together. “You’re killing me.”

 

“And here I thought you were a man capable of resurrection,” she teases.

 

His frustration is a beautiful thing to see. Resting against her pillows, Karen touches herself. Up her thighs, across her ribs, up the side of her neck and into her hair. With Frank watching her, her body feels like a miraculous working of muscle and blood and bone.

 

The room is silent, only her movements against the sheets and Frank’s harsh breathing in the still air. Karen smiles, biting her lip, and looks to him. Her hands trail lower, down across her stomach to the juncture between her thighs. Frank’s chest is motionless; his breath stalled. It’s a drug, having this sway over him. Her fingers detour across her thighs, and she shivers when he lets out a pained groan. It’s too good; Karen nearly feels giddy when she brings her hands up to cup her breasts. She imagines his hands, broad and calloused and covered in scars. Hands made to protect.

 

“Karen,” Frank whispers, and it sounds like a warning.

 

“Shh,” she chastises, one hand drifting up to trail featherlight up the side of her neck. She shudders, the breath catching in her throat. Her hair is scattered over the pillows, tickling her neck and shoulders. Eyes on his, she parts her legs, baring herself to him. A muscle in his jaw twitches and her core pulses under the heavy touch of his gaze. He’s seen her before, seen all of her, but somehow this feels different. Breathless, she drags her fingers across her warm skin. It feels like they leave paths across her body, though that may be the weight of Frank’s eyes on her.

 

She looks to him again, electric with awareness. He looks back, and her hands move lower. Between her legs. Here, her skin isn’t just warm. Her fingers dip into the wet heat of her cunt, the blaze melting throughout the rest of her body. She traces the shape of herself with her fingers, smearing wetness. When she spreads herself, Karen shudders at the cool air touching her hot core. It’s too much; she hisses in a breath and her head falls back.

 

Frank makes a choked noise, and she hears him shift in the chair. “You okay over there?” Rubbing her clit, Karen relishes the buzz of pleasure as it builds. Slowly, faster, then more slowly again...she’s in no rush.

 

Frank growls. Genuinely growls. “Fine.”

 

Smug, Karen lifts her head. One of her fingers dips into her cunt, her hips shifting, and she can’t help let out a deep, guttural sigh. “Just fine?”

 

“Christ almighty,” Frank says, fingers laced together so tightly she worries he might hurt himself. “Kare, I swear to God—”

 

“You want me to stop?” Her hand returns to her cunt, and she works herself toward a climax with his eyes locked on her.

 

“Don’t stop,” he rasps, dark eyes trailing the length of her body like he’s meticulously planning everything he’s going to do when he gets the chance. Which he probably is. Karen grins, panting. “Don’t stop.” He’s at the edge of his seat, nearly falling off. He wants badly to touch her himself, but he respects her desires more.

 

 _Fuck_ , that almost makes her come on the spot.

 

“Do you ever,” he clears his throat, speaks again. “Do you—ever touch yourself and think of me?”

 

Karen’s breath hitches, the words shivering through her. “Endlessly,” she tells him, and can hear the catch in his breath all the way across the room. “Sometimes, when you’re gone all night, I can’t stop thinking about you. I lie here and imagine your hands on me.” Her own hands sweep across her thighs, leaving a sheen of her own wetness. “You can be a,” she dips her fingers into her core, “a frustrating man, Frank Castle.”

 

His rasping laugh sounds half-crazed. “Gotta change that.” A pause, filled only with her increasingly ragged breathing. “Fuck. Karen, you—you’re so—” He watches her, and she burns.

 

With her fingers curling inside of her and Frank’s eyes pressing a promise into her skin, she can feel the orgasm builds from a long way off. Breathless, she waits for it to catch her.

 

She crests, the orgasm dragging her down into an ocean of pleasure. It feels endless, feels like she stops breathing, feels like it might be too much—too much.

 

Mouth open in a silent scream, Karen lets herself be overwhelmed.

 

Finally, _finally_ , the waves stop. She pulls in a breath, lungs filling, ribs expanding. Her body feels made new.

 

Blindly, she reaches for him.

 

Frank is there. In an instant, faster than she would have thought possible, he catches her hand in his. Opening her eyes, Karen catches the hazy awe in his eyes as he covers her body with his own. His mouth is on hers. Insistent, consuming. Lips and teeth and tongue, a mess of want. What he hasn’t been able to say aloud, she feels in the force of his kiss. “You’re trouble,” he tells her, shoving off his pants and boxers. “Ma’am.”

 

The title sends a thrill through her. She drags him back to her, legs wrapping around his waist. Calloused hands on her thigh, he hoists one leg higher, settling against her. She loves the weight of him. He slides his cock against the slickness of her cunt, against her achingly sensitive clit. Karen gasps, and he swallows the sound in a kiss. When he slides home inside her, their kisses miss their mark in the haste to kiss, to touch, to be felt.

 

It is fast, messy, the two of them clinging to each other in the hazy yellow of the street lamp. With every thrust, Frank tells her how much he wants her, what he would do for her, what he will do to her. Karen comes again with her mouth pressed to his ear, vowing the same in return. 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Curving himself around the length of her, Frank seals a kiss behind her ear. “Don’t think we’re gonna be able to do that again.”

 

Bemused, Karen wrinkles her nose. “Why not?”

 

“You’re liable to kill a man, is all.” They settle together, limbs tangled and knotted. Close and sweaty and whole. It’s too hot a night to sleep so close, but Karen won’t move. She knows Frank won’t either.

 

Turning her head, she rests her temple against his nose. “Seems like I remember you having a knack for coming back from the dead.”

 

He rumbles a laugh, presses a kiss to her cheekbone. “Let’s not test that.”

 

 

 


End file.
